Other Rizzoli
by MA477LL
Summary: That time Jane becomes other Rizzoli and does not like it. Implied Maura/Frankie. Rizzles. Christmas-y.


**Other Rizzoli**

That time Jane becomes _other_ Rizzoli and does not like it. Implied Maura/Frankie. Rizzles. Christmas-y.

A/N: Quick one-shot. Mild language warning. Trying a different style. Just something that came to mind after reading LChat.

xxx

For someone as smart as Maura Isles, it takes her a long time to understand that instant family is a lot like instant coffee.

Completely inadvisable.

_Unpalatable_.

But when Frankie first asks her out, it is Jane and Angela and Tommy and TJ and family and forever all bundled up with a pretty pink bow on top. And it all mixes up in her head, and spins her insecurities into a manageable twist that she can wear around her neck like a Tiffany 18k gold pendant of courage, until she hears herself saying: yes. Yes, she will do dinner and a movie. And the fact that there's an option for _more_ is the unsaid but still understood corollary.

And, really, Maura thinks, Frankie and Jane are almost the same person if you squint hard enough.

And it is a way out of loneliness and who knows? Maybe she _can_ squint hard enough, long enough, that it will not matter _anyway_.

Not when both Frankie and Angela are _that_ thrilled.

And, of course, Jane does the honourable thing and gives them space and smiles and time. Because Frankie deserves happiness. And Maura, even more so. It is not even that hard at first, because she is really busy anyway, and there's work. And she's doing triple shifts and consulting with the FBI and travelling up to Portland for seminars, and moving up and up and out and away.

And maybe it is _nothing_ like what Maura really wants, but Jane is not _there_.

And there is Angela and Tommy and TJ and family and, maybe, forever.

And then, it's been six months, and Jane finds out that she cannot be there any more. She _cannot_. It is just that she breathes better when she is away, and something else happens: she finally understands how much it really sucks to be _other_ Rizzoli, and she realises Frankie was a lot tougher for taking all that crap in the chin than she ever gave him credit for.

So, yeah. If he can be such a good brother, she owes it to him to try and be a good sister.

But that requires space. And time. And smiles.

But mostly: space.

"I don't care how busy you think you are, Jane Clementine Rizzoli. You _will_ be here for Christmas," it is said in a pleasant voice. Because no matter how much time and space and smiles Jane manages to squeeze into her life, there is Angela. And Angela is like taxes and death. And long-distance calls are a five-times-a-day occurrence when there is an Italian mother in the way of complete oblivion and a permanent job offer in NYC.

Angela uses many voices, but pleasant and low is the most terrifying of all of them. Jane can easily ignore her mother when she shouts, but when she lowers her tone of voice like this?

"Aw, Ma, come on." It is not a whine, but it is _oh_ so close.

"Five o'clock."

There is silence on the line for a moment. And Jane is tempted to fake static and a broken connection, but then she remembers: this is only call number three of the day. Her shoulders slump.

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Whatever. Look, I really need to go, Ma," Jane mumbles. "I'm kinda busy here _with work_, you know."

"Well, don't let your mother interrupt," Angela snaps, but then, she sighs and relents. She has won this round. "I'll let you go. Drive carefully, you know how bad the roads get when it snows."

"Yeah, don't worry." It is touching, really. And annoying. But touching, too. "I'll be careful. See you on Friday."

"I love you, Jane."

"Yeah, bye."

Angela puts down the phone and wonders if at any point in time, in the near future, she will have all her children happy, at the same time.

xxx

Jane arrives late. And as she hangs up her coat, she's mumbling about traffic and snow and dangerous roads, but nobody cares. Because she is _there_, solid and warm and present. She has squeezed three bodies in quick succession before she finds out it is really hard to let go when Maura's breasts are pushing against her chest and the tiny buckle of her dress belt is pressing against her pelvis.

"Merry Christmas, Jane."

"Maura," she breathes out the word and she's still holding on, and it doesn't look like it is Maura who is going to end the longest hug they've ever given each other, so Jane finally straightens up and takes a step back. "You look great," she says, voice so low it sounds like a growl.

Maura feels a blush creeping up her neck, slowly making its way up her chest. "Thanks. You look nice, too."

And Jane doesn't. Because she has made no effort at all. Her hair is a mess and she is wearing comfy blue jeans, scuffed boots and a black turtle neck sweater that makes it obvious that she has lost weight she could hardly spare.

She only nods.

"Where's TJ?" She asks in a chippy, silly voice, moving away and more fully into the house, sitting down on the floor, next to her nephew, because of smiles and time, but mostly, because _space_ is important.

It is only quite a few drinks, a full stomach and two hours seated in the corner diagonally across from Maura that Jane finally catches on.

"Who is Tina? and why are you leaving so soon, Frankie?"

And what if everyone looks at her like she is stupid. She has quite obviously not been paying attention, because listening means knowing. And she does not know if she wants to know how her life has come to _this_.

"Frankie is trying to pull the moves on this Tina girl," Tommy explains, because Jane is not the only idiot in the Rizzoli family, thank DNA or faulty genes or maybe too many falls on his head when he was a child for that. "He has been working at it like a dog for the last month, right, Frankie?"

"What the hell?" Jane asks and she is looking at Maura for the first time since the long hug at the door, because the shock of this news finally quiets the way her stomach is still not settled and her head is still buzzing after having Maura pressed against her so fully.

"Jane, can you help me with the dishes?"

"Sure, Ma, let me finish this-,"

"I think you've had enough," Angela says as she takes Jane's glass away.

"Hey," she trips a bit over her own feet as she stands up, "I was gonna drink that."

"Of course you were. It's all you've been doing all night."

It sounds like a reproof. Like she is being judged for trying so hard to balance Maura and Frankie and life and disappointment.

"I'm not drunk."

And what if she is? She is smiling, right? And look at all the space between herself and Maura. Isn't that what Angela wanted? What Frankie wanted? For heaven's sake, she has been sitting on the edge of her seat and almost leaning away from the table all meal long.

There's no more fucking space to_ give_.

And she is going to shout to Angela about this when, thankfully, there's a hand on her arm. Five fingers squeezing slightly, guiding her.

"Let's get some air, Jane."

And then, outside, in the cold, Maura explains.

How Frankie is like instant family and that is like instant coffee.

Completely inadvisable.

_Unpalatable_.

And how the possibility of being _more_ with Frankie made her drunk on the possibility of Jane and Angela and Tommy and TJ and family and forever.

And how all of that is worth more to her than a billion dollars, but then, when she figured out that if there was Frankie there would be no Jane in the equation, how it took her no time to see that what she actually got was just all the zeros of the billion dollars; which add up to _nothing_, really, because there is no positive integer in front of them.

And Jane isn't sure if she remembers what positive integers are, but she thinks she gets the gist of what Maura is saying.

"I just don't know how to be _other_ Rizzoli when it comes to you, Maura."

And it is the biggest confession of her whole adult life. And it is almost not enough, but thank god, Maura understands.

She shakes her head and gives Jane a smile that cuts through the fuzziness of all the alcohol. Maura takes a step closer and reaches up to touch Jane's cheeks. Her fingers are cold but also soft, caressing, mapping Jane's high cheekbones, her neck and her ears, before getting tangled in long dark hair that feels like silk.

Jane is warm, alive.

_Here_.

She trembles, but she holds. She holds and she hopes.

"You don't need to be, Jane," Maura murmurs.

And then, she takes a chance and kisses Jane full on the lips, because she does not care about Angela and Tommy and TJ and instant family and forever as much as she cares about Jane and now and closing the space between them.

And if Jane whimpers, it is fully justified, because Maura Isles is kissing her, and her knees are not made of steel, you see, so standing upright for this _surely_ counts as a win.

And as soon as her legs stop trembling, she is going to make sure Maura explains how exactly one _becomes_ a positive integer, anyway.

FIN.


End file.
